


but then you came in and we locked eyes

by lanyon



Series: i've got your blood under my fingernails [16]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: ccbingo, M/M, cricket just got sexy, have fun storming the castle, it's sex o'clock: do you know where chapter two is?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson has said that Barton scares him, with his scant regard for self-preservation and the way he has taken goading the bad guy to an art form. Between Stark and Barton vying for the last word, it is a wonder that Cap hasn’t banged their heads together. They’d deserve it, Coulson says, darkly, and he’s not going to scrape Barton off the sidewalk when he finally says the wrong thing at the wrong time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Coulson is stressed and he is exhausted. Barton can see it in the lines around his eyes. Barton wants to soothe those lines away, with soft fingertips and light kisses. He wants to shoot anything and anyone who contributes to Coulson’s stress and if he never again walks into Coulson’s darkened office to see him sitting at his desk with his hand over his eyes, it’ll be too soon.

 

Barton knows that he’s the only one who sees any sign of weakness. To the world at large, Phil Coulson continues to be exemplary. His work does not suffer. He goes above and beyond the cause of duty and he is indestructible; that’s what all the SHIELD agents say and even Thor and Steve respect him in a way that they don’t respect most mere mortals. It is as though Coulson is their peer and so he is inviolate.

 

It is Friday and Coulson and Barton have lived together in the Avenger Mansion for two months and it is for the greater good. It is for the greater good that Coulson is, in effect, always at work. It is for the greater good that, even when it is a Sunday morning and they are showering together, Coulson’s phone rings or there is an inexplicable influx of email notifications and none of it can wait and he sits on the edge of the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist and an unforgiveable slump in his shoulders as he talks on the phone.

 

Coulson doesn’t complain. He doesn’t say that this is why he never wanted to shack up with a brigade of superheroes and their support staff and sometimes his selflessness irritates Barton.

 

Coulson has said that Barton scares him, with his scant regard for self-preservation and the way he has taken goading the bad guy to an art form. Between Stark and Barton vying for the last word, it is a wonder that Cap hasn’t banged their heads together. They’d deserve it, Coulson says, darkly, and he’s not going to scrape Barton off the sidewalk when he finally says the wrong thing at the wrong time.

 

But now it is Coulson who scares Barton. He’s almost forty-nine and, sometimes, there is the slightest shake in his hands and Barton just wants to fold Coulson’s fingers in his and lead him away from demanding superheroes.

 

Barton is left in a difficult position. He does not want to draw attention to the fact that Coulson is flagging, or that, when he comes back to their room far too late at night, he barely manages to hang up his suit before he’s passed out. Barton doesn’t want to let them get away with it; everyone who goes to Coulson for help because they know that he’ll never say no. When SHIELD agents stop being scared of Coulson, they start exploiting his better nature.

 

It makes Barton’s fingertips tingle and the only cure is to find his bow and make her sing. He starts to loiter around Coulson’s office when he’s not actively required elsewhere.

 

“Is it necessary for you to be armed, Barton?” asks Coulson, at the end of a long week, his eyes red-rimmed from tiredness.

 

“Yes,” says Barton. He says it so grimly that Coulson smiles, which is not the response that Barton expected.

 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were using intimidation tactics, Barton.” He is still smiling. Barton’s heart squirms at the sight. “The foot traffic outside my door has fallen off, rather a lot.”

 

“Turn off your computer,” says Barton, all of a sudden. His words are a rush.

 

Coulson raises an eyebrow.

 

“Turn off your computer and let’s get the fuck out of here.” Barton’s mind catches up with his words and that’s a novel experience. He gestures with his bow.

 

“People will talk, Clint.” Coulson’s tone is deceptively mild. It’s the tone that pulls Banner back from the brink and gets Stark to stop and think and Barton does nothing but careen over every brink he’s encountered and nothing will get him to stop now, not even Coulson’s voice, warm with weariness.

 

“They sort of know we’re fucking, sir,” says Barton. He is being crude just to see the colour rise in Coulson’s cheeks. “Natasha says she never wants to get an eyeful like that again.”

 

“ _Thank you_ , Barton,” says Coulson. He rests his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers together, pressing his index fingers to his pursed lips. “I suppose,” he says, slowly. “I suppose that I can always say you abducted me. At arrow point.”  
  
“”If that’s what it takes, Phil,” says Barton. He’s desperate enough to do it. “Let’s just – leave a note and go.”  
  
“A note saying what, precisely? _Gone for a dirty weekend. BRB_.?”

 

Barton’s grin feels like it’s going to split his face. “I dare you to email that to Fury, sir. I _dare_ you.”

 

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Barton. I’ve already emailed him to inform him that we’re taking the weekend off.”  
  
It should take the wind out of Barton’s sails, to know that Coulson has, apparently, pre-arranged his own kidnapping but he mostly wants to reach over the desk and clench his fists in the lapels of Coulson’s suit and kiss him until they’re both breathless.

 

“I don’t mind saying that I’m impressed, sir,” he says. He settles for setting his bow to the side and gliding his fingertips over Coulson’s tie. “I suppose you’ve already booked a hotel?”  
  
“Mmhm.” Coulson smiles against Barton’s lips. “We’ll be scandalizing the wealthy patrons of a particular hotel in Newport, Rhode Island.”

 

“Fuck, Phil,” says Barton. “I love you. I mean. More than words.” He’s about ready to burst into song but Coulson places a finger over his lips.

 

“No singing, Agent Barton. Do bring your bow, though.” Coulson’s grin is mischievous and, just as no one ever sees his weaker moments, they never see this side of him, either, and it makes Barton want to punch the air triumphantly because this moment is a victory. He can already feel Coulson relaxing beneath his touch and if the stress bleeding out of Coulson's entire frame coincides with the sound of his computer powering off, Barton will not draw attention to it. “Bring your bow,” says Coulson. “Because nothing is stopping us leaving this building.”

Barton picks up his bow. He loves this man and if he has to break windows to get him out of here, he will. They do not sweep each other off their feet. They do not make grand gestures of devotion. They will, however, leave a trail of destruction worthy of the Hulk in this latest bid for freedom. 

Barton doesn't know whether to embrace Coulson or raise his hand for a fistbump so he just stands to the side and nods at the door. "After you, sir. I've got your back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Title from The Mountain Goats' _Oceanographer's Choice_.  
>  +Written for Bingo Prompt: "Facing a Personal Fear for Each Other’s Sake". (Coulson's fear being that leaving SHIELD unattended will lead to the whole place falling down).  
> +I'm also going to take this opportunity to thank you all again, so very much, for all your feedback and for taking the time to comment and/or leave kudos. It means more than I can say but please know that I appreciate you and don't deserve you.


	2. in a naked slumber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +An intimate interlude in Newport, RI because chapter two in _i've got your blood under my fingernails_ is code for an extra scene of a sexual nature. Oh yes.  
>  +As far as I know, the _America_ is no longer moored in Newport so a little bit of artistic license has been taken in that regard.  
>  +Chapter title from Snow Patrol's _Crack the Shutters_.

They stay in an upmarket hotel on Thames Street, which Coulson insists on pronouncing like the river in London. It is his own rebellion. It is bless-the-colonials and it comes from that same ex-pat part of his soul that loves cricket and Earl Grey tea and Marmite on toast.

 

They stay in the sort of hotel that serves afternoon tea but they have not yet made it out of the rumpled sheets, pristine white and twisted around one of Barton’s ankles. His other ankle rests on Coulson’s shoulder. Coulson, defying all expectations and dirty weekend conventions, is hunched over his laptop.

 

“How the fuck did you manage to sneak that in?” asks Barton, his voice rough and low with laziness. He’s sure he could say something about thorough cavity checks in future but something fizzles and stutters in his brain at the thought of opening Coulson up and he can tell by the way that Coulson is sitting that he's still loose and ready and Barton's fingertips tingle.

 

“I have ways, Agent Barton,” says Coulson, as mild as you like.

 

Barton drags his heel down Coulson’s back and Coulson leans against it. “Don’t worry, Clint. I’m just checking the cricket score-“ There’s a soft click-and-whumph and the laptop is closed and safely stowed under the bed. Barton doesn’t think there can be anything less sexy than cricket and he goes so far as to say so. Coulson is appalled.

 

“It takes five days to play a single match,” says Barton because he’s learned that much, at least.

 

"Life's not all about instant gratification,” says Coulson. He stands up and turns around and Barton’s eyes are probably glazed over as Coulson, on hands and knees, works his way up the bed, settling with his head on Barton’s inner thigh and his fingertips glide over the sheets, plotting his way through crevices and hills. He presses a kiss to the inside of Barton’s thigh. “Patience is a virtue, Clint,” he says. He drags his fingers along the crease at the top of Barton’s leg. “Two batsmen, either end of the crease, guard their wickets.” He lifts his head to rest his chin on the top of Barton’s thigh so he can look at him. “Wickets are like targets. _You_ like targets, Clint.”  
  
Barton feels breathless. He shivers a little. “’m very goal-oriented.”  
  
Coulson _tsks_. “Have you been reading your personnel file again?” He rubs his chin over Barton’s leg and there is the merest hint of stubble scratching over his skin.  “And then there are bowlers –“ His hand ghosts inwards, between Barton’s legs and he cups Barton’s balls and Barton bites down on his lower lip and he doesn’t know how he’s going to be expected to retain anything while Phil’s thumb is moving like that. “Different types of bowler. It’s all in the grip, you see.” And like _that_. “There’s fast and there’s spin. There’s seam and there’s swing and sometimes, very naughty men indulge in something called ball tampering.”  
  
“Sounds – sounds dirty-“ says Barton and his eyes roll back in their sockets as Coulson’s mouth replaces his hand and now Coulson’s fingers are curling around Barton’s hips, holding him in place. Barton’s never quite sure how it is that rational thought deserts him so quickly but Coulson’s onslaught is swift and relentless.

 

He dips his head to brush his lips over Barton’s and Barton has no idea how Coulson got there except that he’s some sort of sex _ninja_ with an unfortunate penchant for boring sports. “It’s very dirty. But if you don’t want to learn-“ Coulson tugs Barton’s lip between his teeth and now he’s straddling Barton’s hips, rocking against him, and Barton’s pretty sure this doesn’t happen in cricket, even if it’s a sport that stops for tea. It doesn’t matter that Barton’s fingers are a little shaky because Coulson’s hand is there to guide him and when Coulson raises himself up, only to slide back down to engulf Clint, he hisses and the arc at the base of his spine is truer than any drawn bow and Barton’s fingertips tingle.

 

It is always a victory when Coulson is reduced to wordless moans. It is a victory when he is flushed and his lips are parted and his fingers are splayed on Barton’s chest and Barton knows that he will feel it for the day; Coulson clenching around him, dragging fingernails down his chest, and though they are not vocal and they do not scream, this is not their silence. This is the roaring of blood that still flows within them, give or take the few drops they shed in the line of duty. This is the unison of their hoarse sighs because even Clint Barton knows that words are not always necessary, although when he gathers Coulson into his arms, he murmurs nonsensically in his ear and it is love and this is love and it doesn’t matter that the white sheets are no longer pristine or that Barton doesn’t understand the rules of cricket.

 

There is a seaside town to explore and to scandalize; there’s First Beach and Second Beach and cliffs and mansions and a bridge and a bay and even though Coulson has to tell Barton that he’s not allowed scale the mast of the replica of the _America_ and claim it in the name of Steve, Barton thinks this might be the best weekend ever. 


End file.
